


making it better (the right way)

by novoaa1



Category: DCU
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Explosions, F/F, Harleen Quinzel Needs a Hug, Injured Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU) - mentioned - Freeform, POV Pamela Isley, Pamela Isley Loves Harleen Quinzel, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Pamela Isley, Sad Harleen Quinzel, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy confessions, after harleys relationship with joker, but soft cause she loves harley, harleen quinzel has self-esteem issues, harley is confused, pam is frustrated, pam taking care of her, past abusive relationship, with the joker cause he's the worst, you know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25116712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “Harley, I… " she trails off, inhaling deeply to gather herself; when she tries again, her hands curl into white-knuckled fists at her sides and her words tremble with scarcely-concealed rage (but it’s the best she can manage right now, and it’ll have to be enough): “I want you here because you’re myfriend, okay?”(She feels like a liar as she says that, because she knows damn well that what she feels for Harley stretches far beyond the bounds of ‘friendship’—but she also knows that this isn’t the time for no-holds-barred honesty… at least, notthatlevel of honesty.)“Friends can fuck friends,” Harley points out, stubbornly lifting her chin as if she’s just made a perfectly valid point (which she hasn’t).Or: Harley gets hurt on a break-in at Ace Chemicals, but she doesn't tell Ivy because she doesn't think it matters. (Except it really,reallydoes.)
Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 18
Kudos: 266





	making it better (the right way)

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this on a whim but did nOT wanna spend too much time on it cause im working on the next bit for my other harlivy wip but for sure lemme know what u think
> 
> also these characterizations are (for harley) a mixture of birds of prey (cause she's wearing one of the harley costumes from the movie in this) and the comics and then for pam, i wrote her as a mix of how she's portrayed in hq: the animated series and the comics
> 
> also pls lemme know if there are any super glaring errors i have a really horrible habit of never proofreading anything i write ever

They’re sprinting out onto the streets as Ace Chemicals burns to the ground behind them (accident), flames engulfing various levels of slaughtered board members and corrupt corporate officers (not-so-much an accident), vats of acidic toxins exploding in suspiciously-colored mushroom clouds across the gloomy Gotham-grey sky. 

Harley grabs her hand like it’s a lifeline, drags her over in the direction of a cherry-red Mustang Convertible parked up against the nearest curb—their getaway vehicle, and Harley’s most recent $30,000 impulse-buy.

“You good to drive?” Ivy yells over the chaos raging in their wake: police sirens and gunfire, explosions and people screaming—the usual. 

Harley scoffs, rolling her seafoam-blue eyes (though they do look a bit glassy at the moment, if Ivy’s not mistaken) and flashing Ivy a wicked red-lipped smirk. “Always.”

Harley dives head-first into the driver’s seat, not even bothering to unlock (much less open) the doors—all rush and absolutely no finesse. Meanwhile, Ivy enlists the help of one or two nearby vines to deposit her gently on the passenger’s side before turning to watch as Harley sloppily clambers upright in her seat. Ivy watches her fumble with the keys and curse like a sailor under her breath, thinking that she might just be the most perfect fucking thing Ivy’s seen on this human-infested earth in all her years of living.

Harley sorts herself out a moment later, revving the engine and pulling away from the curb with an ear-splitting screech of rubber on asphalt, and Ivy forgets about everything else. All she feels is wind on her face, the roar of the car engine beneath her, Harley’s girlish laughter ringing in her ears. 

It’s perfect. 

They’re halfway through the 20-minute ride back to Ivy’s greenhouse on the city limits before she gets her first sign that something’s wrong:

Harley slows the car from a break-neck 97mph to a complete halt on the shoulder of a semi-rural road (having long since lost the GCPD cruisers in the first couple minutes of the high-speed chase), shifts the car into park, then turns to Ivy with pleading eyes that look even glassier than before and asks, “Ya mind drivin’ the rest of the way, Red?”

Ivy frowns. “What? You _love_ driving.”

Harley shrugs, flashing Ivy a tight-lipped smile that looks more than a little forced. “‘M just a little tired, is all. And they say that drivin' when you’re fatigued can be just as bad as drivin’ drunk, ‘cause your focus is all wonky and—"

“Cut the shit, Harls,” Ivy snaps, quickly losing her patience. "What’s going on?”

“ _Nothin’_ , I just… " Harley trails off wearily, eyelids fluttering. Ivy watches a droplet of sweat trickle its way between her perfectly-shaped brows. “I just… "

And then she promptly passes out. 

“What the fuck?!” Ivy hisses to no one in particular. 

She pries open her door, hops out and circles around the front of the idling car to the driver’s side door. A thickening vine perched on her sleeve opens Harley’s door, allowing Ivy to curl an arm under Harley’s pale-white knees and another around her back. She lifts her up with minimal effort ( _Harley really needs to start eating more_ , she thinks offhandedly to herself), and—

“Oh, what the _fuck_ ?!"

Coppery blood stains the expensive black leather upholstery—so much of it, in fact, that it’s begun pooling in the crevices, dripping down from the seat and onto the floor. 

Her olive-green hands come away stained with crimson once she’s successfully transferred Harley over to the passenger’s seat. They tremble as she peels Harley’s psychedelic jacket (made from caution tape tassels and various other shiny fringe pieces) away from her bare abdomen to reveal an oozing bullet wound just aloft the waistband of her pinstriped jean-shorts. 

_Dammit, Harley_.

A quick roadside examination tells Ivy it’s a through-and-through—no vital organs hit, no bullet to dig out, and therefore not necessarily an ‘immediate hospitalization’ situation. In other words, something she can handle with herbal remedies and basic first-aid back up at the greenhouse, provided they get there quickly. (All that said, it’s still a far fucking cry from ideal, and— _Fuck, why didn’t Harley just tell her?_ )

She buckles Harley’s seatbelt and checks it twice (though she doesn’t bother with her own, because she has more important things to worry about right now). Then, she’s stepping on the gas and swerving back onto the road without a single care for how painfully the screech of tire on asphalt wails in her ears (—the second time this afternoon, no less). 

All she can focus on right now is Harley—getting her back to the greenhouse, sterilizing and bandaging the wound, chewing her the _fuck_ out for not telling Ivy that she was injured sooner… provided she lives long enough for that. 

_God fucking dammit, Harley_. 

— — 

Ivy glares at her hands, smeared generously with blood that doesn’t belong to her. The air of the greenhouse around her is strange, _tainted_ —a nauseating mixture of dampened soil and lush greenery and the coppery scent of blood that doesn’t _fucking_ belong to her, because it’s _Harley’s_ and not her own. 

Bloodstained medical supplies litter the ground; Ivy’s wet hands tremble as she watches. And Harley… 

_Harley_.

She’s stable, dozing atop a wooden workbench as Ivy looks blankly on. The stark-white bandages around her midsection are a startling contrast to the rest of her: grimy soot-stained skin, bright-pink bra and high-waisted jean shorts soaked through in various places with blood. 

She’s worse for wear but she’s _alive_. Ivy follows every gradual rise and fall of her pale chest with rapt attention as if trying to convince herself of what she already logically knows to be true: that she’s _alive_ , that Ivy doesn’t have to watch the person she cares about most in this entire world slip away… that she’s _alive_. 

One thing’s for sure: As soon as Harley’s well enough, she’s going to get an _earful_ from Ivy. 

— — 

It was a nice idea—waiting until Harley was well enough to get on her case and start demanding answers. Responsible, even. 

But Ivy isn’t exactly known for her patience. She’ll be the first to say it’s probably a miracle she even managed to make it those 30 (very long) minutes directly following Harley’s awakening before she's on her feet, tears welling in her eyes, blood-covered hands gesturing wildly all about as she launches into an impressively lengthy (even by her standards) lecture about safety and trust and whatever else comes to mind. Though, all of it can pretty much be summed up in four words: What the _fuck_ , Harley?!

And the whole time, Harley is _silent_ —blinking up at her with wide glassy eyes, biting her lower lip hard enough that Ivy worries it’ll bleed, wearing this strange look of confusion upon her soot-streaked features… as if _Ivy’s_ the one who’s being confounding right now. 

Which she’s not. 

She’s being _reasonable_ , and _rational_ , and—

“I’m sorry, Ives,” Harley croaks out eventually, shaking her head self-deprecatingly as she pulls either bruised knee up to sit cross-legged atop the bench. Ivy just blinks owlishly back down at her, taken aback. (Getting Harley to apologize was like pulling teeth on a good day.) “Normally I keep a couple doses of adrenaline in my suit for when shit like this goes down, but I wasn’t wearin’ my suit and—I’m sorry, Red. I really am. I didn’t mean to pass out on ya like that.”

Ivy squints at her, trying desperately to make sense of what she’s hearing. “You were going to shoot yourself up with _epinephrine_ to treat a _gunshot wound_ ?!”

Harley frowns, tilting her head slightly to the side. “No, it was supposed to keep me awake until we got back here and I could stitch myself up,” she says plainly, like that’s supposed to be obvious. “But I forgot it like an _idiot_ , and I—I’m _so_ sorry, Red, I _promise_ I didn’t mean to.”

“Harley,” Ivy begins slowly, a sickening realization curling low in her gut, “I’m not the Joker. When you get hurt, I want to know. I want you to _tell_ me.”

Harley’s frown deepens at that, glossy blue-eyed gaze narrowing at her as if trying to see her angle—read between the lines, find some hidden meaning in her words. (It only serves to fuel the burning hatred Ivy holds for Joker ten times over.) 

“… Okay,” Harley concedes eventually, a crease forming between her perfectly-shaped brows that Ivy aches to smooth away. (She doesn’t sound at all convinced.)

“Harley, I’m serious,” Ivy insists, not quite willing to drop it now that she understands where Harley’s reticence to be vulnerable is coming from. ( _It’s almost funny_ , she thinks drolly to herself. _Five minutes ago, I wanted nothing more than to yell at Harley for being so fucking reckless, and now… Sigh._) “We’re equals, okay? _Partners_.” 

Harley’s bright-blue eyes are dull—devoid of recognition. As Ivy watches, the distance in them seems to grow all the greater. 

_Dammit. I’m losing her._

She decides to switch up her approach: “Harls, if it were me—if _I_ were the one injured, you’d want me to tell you about it, right?”

Harley blinks—once, twice, pouting her lips thoughtfully like she doesn’t quite understand where Ivy’s question is coming from. “Yeah,” she replies eventually, and Ivy can practically hear the cheeky _’duh’_ she leaves off the end of it. 

“Well, that’s exactly how I feel when it comes to _you_ being hurt,” Ivy presses willfully, gradually inching forward with leniency on her features and patience hammered into every facet of her posture—approaching Harley like she would a cornered animal.

Thankfully, Harley doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense as she draws near—just sits cross-legged atop the wooden bench, bloodied hands in her lap, blank eyes fixed on Ivy’s like she doesn’t dare look anywhere else. 

When she finally speaks, it’s nothing more than a trembling whisper, her words drenched in an acrid fear that Ivy can _taste_. (It’s abhorrent.) “Yer confusin’ me, Red."

“What’s confusing you, Harls?”

Harley heaves a quiet sigh. “I don’t know what ya _want_ ,” she huffs out, her despairing tone tinged with the barest hint of frustration. 

Ivy clenches her jaw, fighting to keep her tone even. “What does that mean?”

“Ya let me stay here even though ya hate people and ya don’t get mad when I leave dirty dishes in the sink even after ya keep tellin’ me ya _hate_ it when I do that,” Ivy opens her mouth to stop her there, but she doesn’t get very far. Evidently, Harley’s on something of a roll: "And ya let me come on fun heists with ya even though I _always_ fuck everythin’ up, ‘cause AC wouldn’ta gone all kablooey if I didn’t drop that grenade on accident and I don’t—I don’t know what ya _want_ , Red. I don’t… I don’t _get_ it."

Ivy battles vehemently against the molten rage mounting in her chest, the way it threatens to boil over at the slightest provocation if she doesn’t get a handle on it, _now_. “What do _you_ think I should want, Harley?”

Harley shakes her head vigorously from side to side, tears streaking down either grimy cheek. “Like… like… to _hit_ me or _fuck_ me or _somethin’_ , I don’t—I don’t know how I’m s’posed to pay ya back otherwise—"

“Harley,” Ivy stops her, feeling bile rise up in her throat and repulsion churn low in her gut. “That’s—That’s not—"

“I’m real good at sex, Pammy,” Harley rattles off, like she’s reciting the state capitals or something equally as tedious and matter-of-fact. (Ivy feels like throwing up.) “I know I ain't so good at everything else, but—"

“Harley, stop,” Ivy interjects sharply—perhaps a little _too_ sharply, and Harley instantly recoils. “I… " she trails off, inhaling deeply to gather herself. When she tries again, her hands curl into white-knuckled fists at her sides and her voice trembles with scarcely-concealed rage—but it’s the best she can manage right now, and it’ll have to be enough: “I want you here because you’re my _friend_ , okay?” 

(She feels like a liar as she says that, because she knows damn well that what she feels for Harley stretches far beyond the bounds of ‘friendship.’ 

But, she also knows that this isn’t the time for no-holds-barred honesty… at least, not _that_ level of honesty.)

“Friends can fuck friends,” Harley points out, stubbornly lifting her chin as if she’s just made a perfectly valid point (which she really, _really_ hasn’t). 

“Not as some twisted form of _payment_ ,” Ivy counters (she spits out the last word like it’s acid on her tongue). Her patience for this conversation is rapidly waning. 

“Well, then whaddaya _want_ ?” Harley questions, throwing up her hands in exasperation—as if _Ivy’s_ being the unreasonable one here.

“Nothing!” Ivy counters, voice raised (though she’s careful to keep it well below a shout). “Absolutely nothing!"

Harley pouts, apparently stumped. (Unfortunately, it doesn’t last for very long.) “Sooo you’re _not_ mad?”

Ivy scoffs. “Oh, believe me, Harley, I’m plenty mad.”

“Then how do I make it better?” she asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“You promise to _tell_ me next time you’re hurt, so I don’t have you passing out all of a sudden and scaring the ever-loving _shit_ out of me."

Harley tilts her head a little further to one side, gaze narrowed. “That’s it?”

Ivy resists the urge to heave a dramatic sigh. “That’s it.”

Harley wrinkles her nose (which Ivy can’t help but find adorable), peering intently at Ivy’s features as if searching for something—a hint of dishonesty, maybe, though Ivy can’t quite be sure. 

“I think yer gettin’ a bit of a bum deal here, Red,” she declares solemnly after a long moment of scrutiny. Though, there’s a glimmer of something like mischief in her glassy blue eyes that most certainly wasn’t there before—a sign that she’s slowly but surely coming back to herself. 

Ivy pointedly resists the urge to roll her eyes. “If you say so, Harls.”

— — 

Hours later, they’re laid up in Ivy’s bed: Harley on the left, Ivy on the right, face-to-face amidst a tangle of crumpled sheets and vines.

Harley starts drifting off to sleep after only a matter of minutes (thanks to a strong cocktail of herbal painkillers). Ivy isn’t far behind, but when Harley murmurs out, “Hey, Red?” in that small unguarded voice of hers (the kind she only ever uses when she’s about to get _really_ honest), Ivy instantly hums in reply, wordlessly indicating for her to continue.

“I think I’d like it if ya fucked me,” she mumbles out, words stifled with exhaustion. Ivy’s eyes immediately snap open at that but Harley’s remain closed, her pale cheek squished adorably into the pillow. (Ivy thinks it might just be the most precious thing she’s ever seen.) “Not ‘cause I owe ya, but jus’ cause yer the prettiest gal ’n the whole world ’n I think it’d feel nice… " Harley’s brow furrows slightly, her words coming out sleepy and slurred, “… I don’t think it’d hurt with ‘ou… It wouldn’ hurt, right?"

Ivy doesn’t quite know what to say, where to even _begin_ , so she goes for simple instead—answers the question. “No, Harls. It wouldn’t hurt,” she assures her, infusing her tone with as much tenderness as she can muster at this hour. “Not with me.”

“Mm… ‘Das good,” Harley hums, turning her head even further into the pillow. “Love ya, Red.”

“Love you, too, Harls,” Ivy automatically parrots back, but her thoughts are racing like never before. She gapes over Harley in the moonlit darkness, searching her relaxed features for some hint as to what she _meant_... but, nothing. It’s hours before she manages to fall asleep.

— —

**Author's Note:**

> writing the "friends can fuck friends" line for harley made me laugh because i can totally imagine her being all petulant and smug thinking she really did somethin' and ivy just being there like -_- because that is just entirely not the point at all im sdlkfjlkjd
> 
> also writing this whole thing gave me big take care ft rihanna - drake vibes🧐
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search me up @ultralightdumbass to come talk to me there!)


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